At Every Step You Missed
by hauntedlittledoll
Summary: Title and Chapter Titles taken from Theodore Roethke's poem, "My Papa's Waltz." Set in the future world of 5x04, "The End." This is how Dean & Castiel got from their phone conversation to that last suicide mission-a backstory if you will for the future.
1. The Hand that Held My Wrist

**The Hand that Held My Wrist**

Looking back over the last half hour, Castiel decided that his error had been to follow the signs to Detroit. His search was too well-known (and well-mocked) by his brethren. Lucifer had simply arranged a trap, and Castiel walked right into it despite knowing—_knowing_—that Lucifer's operations were based in the city.

He could hear Dean growling already.

Castiel's world had been reduced to a circle six foot in diameter. One of the more-up-to-date demons had confiscated his cell phone, and Dean did not know where he had been intending to go. Things looked rather grim.

He had been left alone however without even so much as a guard. Castiel could work that to his advantage if he had anything at all to work with.

Anything besides the unconscious body of Sam Winchester bound to the same space by the devil's trap painted upon the ceiling. The sheer level of blood that the man must have drunk to be so affected by the symbol . . .

Castiel chose not to think about it. The world depended on both of the Winchester brothers remaining strong enough to deny the archangels their respective vessels. The obvious torture to his body and the presence of demon blood in Sam's system had already weakened the youngest Winchester. Castiel would not add to it.

When Sam moved, Castiel took the step necessary to stand beside him. When he called for Dean and opened his eyes, Castiel crouched and laid one hand on Sam's shoulder.

"You're not Dean," Sam's face fell.

"It is Castiel."

"Please just go away," the man pleaded. "Or kill me and end it all."

Castiel could not—would not—do that. Instead, Castiel gently cradled Sam Winchester's face in both hands. Big eyes fixed on him, bloodshot and dark in a way that had nothing to do with the youngest Winchester's demon blood.

"Be strong, Sam. Your brother loves you."

"Funny way of showing it."

Sam's throat grated on every word, and the joke ended with a coughing of blood and bile. The crimson life-giving substance streaked Sam's face in a mockery of tears. The smell was terrible. The evil in the warm wetness on Castiel's fingers burned, but the angel clung stubbornly anyway.

Sam's eyes close and he exhaled slowly. His expression evened out, the face calm as if in sleep, but the other man was not asleep.

"You could . . . we're both . . . if you use me as a vessel, then no one else could. Dean could . . . you're a better brother than I am, Castiel."

"What are you saying, Sam?" Castiel tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"You could possess me, Castiel. Lucifer can't take my meatsuit if you're in it. It'll save the world. It'll save Dean."

"You wish to be used as my vessel?" Castiel asked blankly, head tilting to the other side.

Sam smiled. "Lucifer can't take me. The world doesn't end. Jimmy can go back to his family. Dean can have a little brother again—a better one—and everyone wins." Sam gave an undignified snort. Blood began to pour from his nose. "Except for Lucifer."

Castiel dug in Jimmy Novak's pockets for a handkerchief to mop up the bleeding.

"Dean would not approve," he intoned quietly.

"He wouldn't have to keep saving me anymore," Sam pleaded earnestly. "I won't be able to _hurt_ him anymore. You're a better brother than I ever was, Castiel."

Castiel shook his head sharply. "Dean would not approve," he repeated.

"Dean never lets anyone take care of him," Sam argued. "But he's letting you. Sort of."

"I will not," Castiel's tone was final.

Sam pulled away with a cry, rolling to curl up at the far edge of the circle. With that movement though, he uncovered what may be their saving grace.

Lucifer had not confiscated Sam's cell phone. Castiel snatched it off the floor. It was too easy. Castiel held his breath as he opened the phone. It could be out of battery. There was probably no signal.

Except it wasn't. And there was.

"Why did you not call for help?" Castiel demanded, searching for Dean's number in a directory of contacts from a lifetime of hunting.

"I did," Sam whispered, still not facing him. "He wouldn't come."

Castiel couldn't believe that. Then the call went through to Dean's voicemail. Castiel hung up and dialed again. The same.

Sam laughed bitterly. "He can't trust me anymore. He can't even trust me when I ask for help. What have I become that my big brother can't even trust that I need him?" The laughter turned to sobs—harsh choking sounds, dry because Sam can't cry anything but blood now. "I just want it to end, Castiel. The End."

"Hush," Castiel ordered, searching through the little icons for the desired feature. Dean had shown him how to do this on Castiel's own phone, but Sam's was a different model. A vaguely camera-shaped icon seemed the best bet even if the type of camera depicted was from the early 1900s.

He gripped Sam's shoulder, rolling him back against the boy's will, and pinned him there with one hand as he raised the phone and clicked the little button. Castiel then forwarded it to Dean. The older brother would not be able to rationalize away the image of Sam bleeding.

Castiel was rewarded with the immediate cacophony of sound that served to identify Dean's call.

"_Where is my brother, you son of a—_"

"Dean."

Startled into silence, and then: "_Cas?_"

"Lucifer has Sam and myself trapped in Detroit. We cannot free ourselves, Dean," Castiel conveyed the necessary information succinctly. "Sam . . . Sam needs you."

There was a moment of complete silence. Sam moaned across the circle; Castiel flinched. He had given the brothers every warning he could; the benefit of newfound doubt, and it all hinged on saving Sam now—the brother that didn't want to be saved. The fate of the world hung in the balance. Castiel couldn't do it alone.

"_I'm on my way. Let me talk to Sam._"

Castiel looked at the battered hunter. Blood trickled from Sam's ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. "I cannot guarantee he will be able to respond," Castiel warned. _Or even hear Dean by now_, he thought, but did not tell Dean. "Sam."

He pulled the hunter up, and braced Sam's body with his own. Sam struggled weakly, but Castiel persisted, pressing the phone to Sam's ear. He could not make out Dean's words. It wasn't for him. It was between the brothers.

Sam writhed free of his grip with a sudden desperate twist. The human fell to the floor, his head rebounding off the concrete with a sharp crack.

"_Sam!_"

Castiel ignored the phone, scrabbling to pull the human back into his lap and find a pulse. Sam moaned, and Castiel forced his head still with one hand. "Open your eyes, Sam," the angel ordered.

"No. No." Sam went limp, his breathing slow and even. The wet gurgle at the end was worrisome. Castiel belatedly realized that although Sam had slipped into a merciful state of unconsciousness, his hand was locked firmly around Castiel's wrist keeping the angel's off-hand pressed to the side of the human's face.

"_Cas! What's going on?_"

He returned his attention to the phone. "I cannot speak just now. Goodbye, Dean."

"_You tell him, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, you hear?_"

"Yes." Castiel closed the phone and tucked it into the inner pocket of his trenchcoat. "Sam," he called quietly, shaking the human carefully. Sam didn't stir. The pulse was not enough of a reassurance for Castiel, and he redoubled his efforts.

"How's he doing?" Lucifer asked pleasantly from the other side of the flames. Castiel had not seen him arrive.

Under the devil's voice alone, Sam sprang awake. Blood sprayed from his mouth, staining Castiel's coat as the man writhed and screamed soundlessly in the angel's mock-embrace. Wide-eyed, Sam stared past Castiel, his eyes glazed and bloody. Castiel knew that without angelic healing, Sam Winchester would never see again.

"Casti-Cas," Sam gasped out, his grip on Castiel's arm strong enough to leave bruises if Castiel had been merely mortal.

"I am here, Sam Winchester."

"Don't let him bring me back, Cas. I don't want to be brought back."

Castiel wasn't sure of whom Sam was speaking or what Sam thought Castiel should do about it. There was little that an angel of his caliber (even one that wasn't falling) could do to stand up to an archangel. And although Dean had brought Sam back once, Castiel was sure that both brothers had paid enough that there would be no repeat performances.

"Don't let him bring me back," Sam sobbed, turning his face blindly into Castiel's hand. "Please, Cas. Please."

The angel stroked bloody hair back from the man—no—the boy's face. "I won't," he lied calmly. Dean had taught him this human skill, and it seemed so much more appropriate to use it now for another's peace than on the unsuspecting masses. Humans were so young.

Sam's free hand fumbled against the side of Castiel's face. "Promise?"

"I promise."

Sam shuddered, his mouth curved into a content smile, and then it was over. Sam's hands fell away, and all was still.

"Lying is a sin, Castiel," Lucifer spoke mildly.

"Humans sin for love," Castiel returned. "Romantic love . . . familial love . . . self-love . . . even if it's just the barest scrap of affection; it does not matter. Whether they have it or not . . . whether they want to obtain it or want to be rid of it . . . they sin for love, Lucifer. What do we sin for, brother?"

"Love, Castiel."

"Then what sets us apart from men in your eyes?" Castiel asked in feigned-curiosity. It made no difference to him. If Lucifer chose to answer, it would only be a lie.

"Everything else. Lie for love again, Castiel. How many times will you show mercy to one that you despise? How many times will the poor fool believe you?"

"I do not despise Sam Winchester."

"That's the spirit," Lucifer chuckled.

Lucifer merely chuckled, and the body in Castiel's arms jerked caught by painful spasms. Sam inhaled sharply, and then he rolled away from Castiel. The angel let him go. Sam hunched forward, braced on all fours. The human was panting as his fingers scrabbled for purchase in the concrete. Slowly, Sam's breathing evened out. He swiped an arm across his face and no new blood replaced the old. Slowly, Sam turned his head, peering at Castiel from across the circle and under the shield of his hair.

His eyes were completely clear. He focused on Castiel easily.

"Wha-what . . . Cas?"

Castiel tilted his head to the side.

"You _promised_."

"I lied."

* * *

It was hours later, but still hours before Dean could possibly arrive when Castiel was again permitted to offer comfort to Sam Winchester. The other man has died twice more, beaten, broken, burned, and restored again. He has already held out so much longer than Castiel expected.

But Sam wouldn't let Castiel near unless he was reaching the end of his rope. With the shattering of Sam's last faith in angels, something had broken inside the youngest Winchester. Denial was rote now; not felt. Castiel felt despair at the difference.

Castiel cradled the human to his chest as gently as he was able. "Hold on, Sam. Dean is coming."

Sam shook—the tremors of his destroyed body too hard to control. "L-liar."

Castiel tilted his head to the side and sighed. "Dean will come, Sam. He will spit in Lucifer's face, and free us with irreverent jokes on his tongue while insulting our capability with every other breath. He will leave his car behind that I may transport you both to Bobby's and safety that much faster. Dean loves you and will sacrifice everything for you, Sam."

"I don't _want him to!_" the man bit off violently.

"That is not your choice to make," Castiel reminded him, smoothing hair back from the man's face and wrapping his abandoned trenchcoat closely around the human.

Sam laughed weakly. "Isn't it?" he demanded, gesturing expansively at the ring of fire, the devil's trap, Lucifer . . .

"It is your choice," Lucifer leaned in slightly. "It will always be your choice, Samuel. Let me in, and Dean will never bear the weight of your failings again. I can shoulder them. Dean doesn't have the strength."

"Dean is stronger than you give him credit for, Lucifer," Castiel informs him, curtly. His arms tighten around his burden unconsciously, and Castiel frowns down at Sam. "You know this more than anyone, Sam."

"You know what you have done, Sam," Lucifer counters. "It doesn't matter how strong Dean is. You've done too much. You've become something that he can't bear to see. He's tried. You know how he's tried, Sam. But you've just done too much."

The look on Lucifer's face is sympathy, and Castiel turns Sam away from that false promise. He can't block out Lucifer's voice though.

"It's too late, Sam. I've never lied to you after all. Not like Castiel."

Castiel closed his eyes. "Do not give in to the Prince of Lies, Sam. His words only become truth if you make them so. Dean is coming, Sam. Believe that if you hold nothing else sacred. Your brother will come."

"If he does, my demons will tear him into pieces before he crosses the yard," Lucifer promised apologetically. "He'll die trying to save you, Sam. Again."

Sam chokes on a sob in the back of his throat. Castiel roughly massages the back of Sam's neck; he's familiar with the concept, but not the practice. Sam leans into it anyway. "Second thoughts, Castiel?"

"I will not take you as my vessel," Castiel whispered harshly. "I will not violate Dean's trust. I will not damage you any further. You still have a choice, Sam."

Sam isn't looking at him, but sort of beyond him. "I never had a choice."

Sam died in his arms again, and Castiel waited for Lucifer's temptations to begin. He doesn't put the human down, because he knows that Lucifer will raise him once more and Sam doesn't deserve to come alive on the ground anymore than Dean deserved to come back in that awful box.

The devil raises one eyebrow, and then he waves his hand. Sam sputters back to life. Castiel hangs on. Round six hundred and sixty-six.

"If you take me, then Jimmy could let us out," Sam whispered. He's not hurting anymore, but he's exhausted as he leans into the minor angel who never had a prayer of a chance to protect him anyway. "You could smite all the demons and mojo us to Dean in an instant. Imagine his face if his little brother's body just appeared shotgun after all this time."

Castiel didn't respond. He didn't tell Sam that had been his place for the last few months. He actually felt a little guilty for assuming the seat as if Sam were already gone. By the look in Sam's eyes, Castiel thought Sam might already know.

"But you can't lose the amulet," Sam reminded him tiredly. "I gave that to Dean. It's his, and it's important, so you can't forget it. Jimmy'll just throw it away."

Castiel didn't tell Sam that he had returned the amulet to Dean weeks ago in a fit of despair that ended with both Dean and Castiel drunk on Bobby's porch.

"I'll say yes to you, Castiel," Sam whispered.

"No, Sam," Castiel shook his head, futilely. The Winchesters have made a habit of doing exactly the opposite of Castiel's wishes.

Sam's head fell back against Castiel's chest, spine broken with a thought from Lucifer. Sam's still alive, but never so helpless. Even if Castiel took him over in this second, he no longer has the power to heal his own injuries. All Sam had left now are words, and Castiel knows what he's about to say.

He wrapped himself tighter around the human, ducking his head as if capable of protecting Dean's brother with his own body. But Sam's voice rang out regardless in a single syllable that was strangely inevitable.

"Yes."

Castiel hangs on in the last moments of Sam Winchester's existence. He doesn't do it for Sam, or Lucifer, or himself, but he does it for Castiel's only friend.

Dean Winchester cannot be here for his brother, so Castiel will be in his place.

Castiel hangs on a moment too long. Lucifer heals his vessel instantly and flings Castiel across the ring of fire. The burn is not unsubstantial, but Castiel puts the pain at the bottom of his perceptions and stands tall as Lucifer examines his new vessel.

Nick was dying on the other side of the flames. Neither angel paid him a second thought.

"Second thoughts, Castiel?" Lucifer's words echoed his vessel's in a mockery of a smile. Castiel stood as tall as he could manage against the 6'4" frame the devil now wore. He would not bow. "That's a pity," Lucifer shook his head slowly. "We'll work on that."

"I will not betray Dean."

Lucifer smiled more gently this time. "I think you'll find me to be more . . . persuasive . . . than Sam, brother." Lucifer turned without giving Castiel a second thought, took a step, and came to a halt inside the ring of fire.

Castiel felt that the situation allowed for a smirk. He enjoyed the irritation that this expression provoked in others, and Lucifer's teeth grated audibly as he faced Castiel once more. "Patience is a virtue, Lucifer."

The archangel had been so eager to take his new vessel, he hadn't taken into account the vessel's location trapped inside an angel-proof space.

"Go ahead and kill me," Castiel shrugged. "Dean will never free you. He'll burn you alive in Holy fire."

"My demons . . ."

Castiel pointed wordlessly at the devil's trap on the ceiling. How . . . _literal_. "I'm afraid none would be so loyal what with your habit of disposing of your most loyal lieutenants so frequently. Lillith. Alistair. Ruby." Castiel turned his back on Lucifer. "We will die together, brother. Checkmate."

For a moment, Castiel thinks that perhaps he has goaded the devil strongly enough to have gained imminent death. Then, with the sudden sound of combat just outside . . . Lucifer smiled.

"I think not."

Dean had to have flown to get here this fast. Castiel never expected that outcome. He wondered if this all could have been avoided if Sam had held out five minutes longer. He wondered if he could have persuaded Sam to wait five minutes longer before the human foolishly put up his body for auction.

Castiel moved forward and seized Lucifer by the front of Sam's shirt and threw him to the ground. The archangel could smite him without expending the least effort, but Castiel was a dead man anyway so long as they succeeded.

They had to succeed. There would be no second opportunity like this one.

Lucifer bounded upright, his fist slamming into Castiel's sternum with the force of a tidal wave. For a long moment, Castiel was without breath, and Lucifer took advantage to rip Castiel's feet out from under him. The impact of his badly burned back against the ground caused problems with the vessel's vision. Castiel climbed to his feet anyway.

He was a soldier. He fought until death. Until being stationed on Earth, the concept of rescue had been foreign to him. It was with that mindset that he now grabbed the ankles by his face and pulled, rolling to one knee and slamming the other into the kidney of Lucifer's vessel.

He would inflict whatever damage possible. Grace spent on healing was grace that was not used against Dean in Lucifer's illusions.

Like Castiel, Lucifer had been cut off from heaven, but he was an archangel and his natural power dwarfed Castiel's as the light of the sun dwarfs that of a firefly.

His older brother flipped him again, but Castiel took the brunt of it with his shoulders and neck, rolling upright again a scant inch from the flames. The cramped space was his only advantage. His vessel was short and slight in stature while Lucifer's was considerably larger. Lucifer would need to exert greater care to avoid the flames; the burns from Holy fire were likely the only thing short of Michael's sword to do damage that not even an archangel could heal.

He pushed with all his might, and Lucifer stumbled back, throwing a hand out for balance that burned from the ring's unforgiving influence. The burn ended the fight, but not in Castiel's favor as Lucifer set upon him once more—this time with actual anger.

In short order, Castiel found himself on his back, face pressed to the side centimeters from the ring by Sam Winchester's boot. His airway had been much reduced already. Lucifer exerted a little more force, and now Castiel felt his neck creak ominously. Much further and his spine would crack . . .

"_Sam!_"

Lucifer was off of him instantly. "Dean!"

Dean was staring, homemade blowtorch almost forgotten in his hands. Of course, Dean had been unable to sneak their artillery through airport security, and would be forced to improvise with what he could obtain between the airport and the warehouse. Castiel appreciated his creativity, but perhaps this wasn't the time.

"Dude, what were you doing to Cas?" Dean asked, already wary. Castiel forced himself up to his hand and knees, rubbing his neck with a free hand.

"There's something messed up about this place, Dean," Lucifer pleads so earnestly with Sam's voice and face, clutching his hand to his chest like the mortal might have. "I can't . . . _we_ can't control ourselves. You gotta break the trap, Dean."

Dean stared back quietly and raised his torch, searing through the devil's trap on the ceiling. "Not bad for under twenty bucks, huh, _Sammy_? Come on, and help me find a way to get Cas out?"

Lucifer shifted uneasily. "I can't. It's a spell, Dean. You'll have to break through both of them."

Dean edged around the circle of flame. "Cas?"

Lucifer took a step back and fixed Sam's best puppy-dog expression on his face. "You trust an angel more than your own brother?"

"Just when things don't add up . . . I know I trust him more than the Devil." Dean indicated Nick with his toy. "You thought I'd miss the empty vessel? How stupid do you think I am?"

"I underestimated you," Lucifer raised his hands to placate the human. "I'm sorry, Dean. I understand your pain. My brother betrayed me as well."

"Shut up," Dean seethed. "Cas, you alright?"

"It is immaterial, Dean," Castiel croaked past his abused throat. "You must burn us both in holy flame. It will substantially weaken him. Perhaps enough to end this tonight if you summon the angels . . ."

"You dying isn't an option, Cas!" Dean growled. His face paled under the freckles. "How do we get Lucifer out of Sam?"

"It's impossible. Even if Lucifer vacated Samuel's body, there would be nothing left of your brother. An archangel's power is absolute, Dean."

"Now that isn't quite true," Lucifer observed calmly, folding his hands to pace silently on the other side of the circle. "I have the ability to fold myself around my host, and protect Sam. I'm afraid that I won't be leaving, but Sam is still aware. He's in a safe place, Dean. You don't have to worry about him anymore. I'll take care of him."

"Get out of my brother, you bastard," Dean whispered; his voice was sharp with grief and tight with anger.

Lucifer looked at Dean almost tenderly, and Castiel had the strongest urge to grip the devil and bash his vessel's head in against the floor. He held back. He could not threaten what Dean saw as his brother. Dean wouldn't fall to the illusion. Castiel had to have faith in Dean.

Lucifer held out one hand to the mortal brother—the burnt one which should have healed by now, but Lucifer had thought ahead. He caused Dean agony through what the eldest Winchester perceived to be Sam's pain. "Dean, you could kill me right here and right now. You have the tools—a genius contraption by the way. The fire would weaken me, perhaps even kill me. You even have that extra bit of insurance. I know that Castiel gave you his knife."

Lucifer smiled softly. "You can save the world, Dean. If you are willing to sacrifice Sam and Castiel, you can save the entire world. I will allow Sam to feel his last moments of pain as the two of you sacrifice everything for the sake of the world. He might even be able to fight through the agony to say good bye . . . and the world will thank you."

"Let the world end," Dean whispered, but Castiel knew that the other man didn't mean it. That he was simply repeating the embedded sentiment that governed Dean Winchester the last time his brother had been taken from him. "Mine did."

"If you release me, I will let you and Sam say your last good-byes. You and Castiel will be free to leave this place, and I will keep Sam safe until the days of the world are complete."

Dean stood there. Lucifer waited triumphantly, and Castiel shoved his brother face first into the flames. Lucifer tore away with a scream, and Castiel stood tall in his place forcing eye contact with his charge.

"This is not your brother, Dean! Light the fire!"

"Cas."

"I will be proud to die in the defeat of the devil, Dean! Light it!"

Lucifer stood, and Castiel knows his remaining moments are numbered either way. When an archangel gripped his throat in both strong hands, Castiel felt himself raised off the floor and prepared to be sent reeling into oblivion once more.

"If I let you out, you never touch Castiel again," Dean interrupted, swallowing hard.

Everything went absolutely and utterly still. Castiel longed to intervene, but could say nothing. He scratched with fingernails like a clawed beast, but Lucifer paid him no attention. Dean had the floor.

"Castiel survives," Dean's voice was stronger. "You can't kill him, and neither can any of your lackeys. I get to say good-bye to Sammy, and Castiel walks out of here with the equivalent-mark of freaking Cain."

Lucifer dropped Castiel to the floor, and Castiel fought for breath as the vessel panicked for oxygen. "If you set me free, you will get your last farewell and Castiel will never die by my hand or any hand I command."

Castiel struggled to get to his feet.

"Agreed."

Dean kicked at the corpse by his feet, rolling the man into the flame to form a bridge. Lucifer took a dignified step over his former vessel. Castiel stumbled forward, slamming into Dean in a half-tackle as he dragged his charge away from Detroit and the Devil.

* * *

They fell into Bobby's yard, falling against an abandoned Buick that knocked the breath from them both. Castiel was becoming accustomed to being unable to breathe. Dean took a moment to recover.

The yard was quiet; the silence only broken by the slam of the screen door as Bobby wheeled himself out of the house.

Dean yanked away, already turning and his fist slams into the side of Castiel's face with enough force to shatter the mortal's hand. Dean's scream echoed in the yard for a moment, and Castiel observed in the quiet aftermath how Bobby simply sat quietly outside the door. The older hunter would not interfere.

"You didn't even let me say good bye, Cas! That's all I wanted, and the devil promised me that much! Do you really hate Sammy that much?"

"Lucifer lied. Sam is gone."

"He isn't!" Dean took another swing, but Castiel caught his hand with extreme care to leave it undamaged. "Don't tell me that my brother's dead. Don't you tell me that!"

Castiel obligingly remained silent.

"It's my job to protect him! He's my little brother! And I was too late! I'm always too late!"

Dean fell against him, and Castiel sank to his knees under the man's weight. "No . . . not Sam. Not Sam." Desperate hands scrabbled at the back of Castiel's head, twisting and pulling hair. Dean jerked in his arms, stiffening and supporting his own weight. "It's my job to protect you." He pulled Castiel to him, and hung on, rocking the angel back and forth with the desperate tremors of Dean's own body. "Sam. Sam. Sam!" Dean's voice echoed off the heaps of metal surrounding them, and his hands fist—one in Castiel's hair and the other in his coat, Dean's arm like iron around him.

Castiel suddenly realized that Dean had held another figure exactly like this three years ago, and cried these same words. He embraced his charge, understanding Dean's need for an outlet for his grief. Dean would never get closure now, and Castiel was a pale stand-in for Sam Winchester, but he was strong enough to bear Dean's grief.

The shakes subsided slowly until they were a weary tear-stained mess on the ground, and Dean looked at him as if for the first time, his hand falling from Castiel's shoulder to grip the angel's bruised wrist. It should heal soon, but Dean was lost in contemplation.

"You're not him."

Castiel swallowed, remembering desperation and fear and blind faith. He expected to be pushed away, because Castiel also remembered a broken promise. And Castiel wondered if maybe he had been wrong to deny Sam.

"Do you want me to be?"

"You're Castiel," Dean answered ambiguously, and his grip on Castiel's tightened around Castiel's raised arm for a split second before he stood.

It is only after Dean staggered towards Bobby with the full news that Castiel asked: "Will that be enough?" But nothing answered him.


	2. Still Clinging to Your Shirt

**Still Clinging to Your Shirt**

Nothing was ever easy. Nothing was ever as easy as it was supposed to be. Two-man retrieval mission to a convent in Texas to retrieve a stupid—probably useless—book that might help Bobby locate the demon in charge of the Colt. Castiel would fly him in, Dean would grab the book, and they'd be back in Bobby's kitchen five minutes later.

There had been nothing said about the seven demons on holy ground guarding the book, or the mob of Croats outside the building as the townspeople destroyed themselves from the inside out.

"This had better be worth it," Dean declared loudly. He had been separated from Castiel earlier, but he'd left the angel with Ruby's demon-killing knife and Castiel had been making swift progress through the bigger uglier foes. Dean's angel could handle himself until the hunter could get to him. Dean had bigger things to worry about . . . or rather smaller things to worry about in the form of the possessed blonde teenage girl attempting to slice him into lots of little pieces with a nail-file of all things.

Dean spat out another line of the exorcism, and with a head-butt managed to regain some ground. Rather than being flat on his back with demon-girl perched on his chest, he was now sitting on his ass with a nail-file buried in his shoulder. He couldn't slip in a moment of well-deserved cursing, so he growled through the rest of the exorcism while the demon was still reeling.

Peering through the smoke, Dean caught sight of Castiel's trenchcoat as the angel sprinted up the stairs after the last demon and the book. Wearily, Dean jerked the nail-file out of his arm and lurched to his feet to provide some back-up for his friend.

It was his hunter's instinct that sent him to the ground, and was rewarded with the flash of long blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. _Just_ great; Pollyanna had a twin.

It was the scream that undid him. Castiel didn't scream. Angels don't just scream. And when Dean actually heard a blood-curdling scream from above, he can't help being distracted. Unfortunately for Dean, Blondie took advantage of the opening left and backhanded him. His head rebounded off the stone steps, and the demon moved to stand over him with a heavy statue in hand that the teenager wouldn't have been able to lift on her own.

The demon suddenly spun away from the helpless Winchester in a state of unadulterated terror. Grimly, Dean slammed his hands over his ears, knowing that this—whatever this was—wouldn't be good, and rolled off and under the stairwell. Angel-voice proceeded to blow out his eardrums anyway, only to heal a moment later, bleed again, and heal. Again. And again.

This was a million times worse than Castiel's voice at the gas station. Stronger, more powerful, and pained . . . so pained.

The human voice continued to scream throughout the angelic outcry, a sustained undercurrent to the angel-voice. Dean would have done anything to never hear Castiel scream like that, but now he could do nothing but listen in the brief intervals where his hearing remained intact.

A brilliant flash of light fills the room, so bright that it shone through Dean's eyelids and he can see the demon disintegrate in holy purifying flame through his closed eyes. And then there is _Nothing_.

_Nothing_ is silent.

* * *

When Dean next stirred, the warehouse is dark. The fire alarm was blaring and the sprinklers had drenched everything excluding Dean, who was somewhat sheltered by the staircase.

Inside, there was only the steady blare of the fire alarm, and the noise of the sprinklers soft spray. Outside, he could still hear the Croats clawing at the building, beating on the doors, and rattling the barred grates over the windows. The pathetic beings just crawled over the bodies of their dead fellows; Dean could see the gore and destruction from here.

"Cas!" Dean took the stairs two at a time. "Cas! Castiel, you-" and Dean cut himself off, because he didn't know what he would find upstairs, where the second floor had been completely leveled. "Castiel, where are you?" the irate Winchester demanded, wishing for a flashlight.

He had to find Cas. He had to find him. He couldn't fail this time. He had to find his bro-his angel. He had to find his angel.

He saw the emblazoned black wings across the entire back wall first, and Dean's heart nearly stopped at the sight. An agonized breath finally escaped his chest, and the forced reminder of his body sent Dean into a fresh tailspin. There was no body . . . no vessel left empty . . . square in the center of those wings. If Castiel was gone, where was Jimmy Novak's body?

It's the trenchcoat that caught Dean's eye, and he fairly flies himself towards his fallen friend. Castiel lay sprawled on his back among the rubble. Fighting back the over-whelming sense of déjà vu, Dean bent over Castiel and shook his shoulder.

The déjà vu intensified when the smaller form jack-knifed away from him. Arms went up to protect his face in a purely-human gesture, but the poor guy can't even muster the strength to stand up. "Wha-what's going on?" his voice cracks, as he crumpled in on himself.

"Take it easy, Jimmy," Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I'm not J-jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . is gone."

That had Dean down on his knees, bracing Castiel and demanding information simultaneously. Information that Castiel wouldn't—couldn't—give if the shaking was anything to go by.

Dean pointed across the room at the beautiful deadly outline of massive wings. "Who . . . what?" Castiel wouldn't meet his eyes, and Dean gripped a trenchcoat-clad shoulder as Castiel sank back towards the ground. "Stay awake, Cas!" he bit off, his voice snapping an order. "C'mon, man-"

A choked-sob broke past Castiel's throat, and Dean stared.

Nothing else was forthcoming, and eventually, Dean broke the silence. "We have to get to Bobby's. Can you get us there, or do you need time to recharge?"

"I c-can't take us _anywhere_," and Jimmy's stutter in Castiel's voice grated on Dean's nerves. It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, and by then Castiel had continued, wide blue eyes fixed on Dean's face. "I c-can't fly ever again."

Dean felt horror rising through him, as Castiel delivered the final coup de grace.

"My wings are gone."

And Castiel crumpled into Dean's arms, crying like a heart-broken child feeling the first sting of betrayal, of guilt, of loss, of hunger, of pain, and of everything else that made humans what they were, but was spread out over the course of a lifetime to keep from overwhelming their fragile souls.

Dean crushed the man to his chest, muffling Castiel's cries by forcing the former-angel's face into the junction of head and shoulder, fisting one hand in the messy hair, trying to comfort, trying to calm, and trying not to remember holding another dying brother exactly like this.

When the tears finally ran out, Castiel was a shivering, sodden mess, and Dean is soaked through now from the sprinklers. Now more than ever, they need to get back to the safety of Bobby's, and Dean's on his own to get them there.

No angelic transport.

No car.

Just a vulnerable former angel, a demon-killing knife, his gun, and four bucks. The odds weren't promising.

Dean had better get started.

C'mon, Cas. We gotta get moving, buddy."

Castiel nodded into Dean's shoulder tiredly, from where he's slumped against the hunter. Taking that as permission, Dean hauled the smaller man upright. Castiel swayed on his feet, so Dean kept one arm locked around the other man's waist, and dragged one of Castiel's arms across his shoulders. Castiel's shaking had already intensified and the former angel needed to get out of these wet clothes. Unfortunately, there was nothing readily available to replace them. Dean's only now realizing the sheer number of threats to his former-angel.

Small steps.

Down the stairs. Deal with the Croats. Get outside. Find a car. Hotwire a car. Interrogate Castiel.

The last step didn't go quite as Dean planned. Castiel was confused and exhausted. Not a very good combination for someone on the verge of slipping into shock. When Castiel's lips begin turning blue, Dean makes a stop at the first department store he sees on his way out of town. The Croatoan Virus has been here already, and the place looked abandoned. He took the knife from Castiel just to be safe and shook the angel hard.

"Cas. Cas!" The former-angel flinched, but Dean wouldn't relent. "Cas, I'm going to go in there and get us some supplies. I'm going to lock you in . . . just in case any of the Croats lingered. Don't leave, and _don't_ fall asleep. I'm going to need you to let me back in when I get back. Got that?"

Castiel blinked foggily up at him. "Don't fall asleep," he repeated. It had to be good enough.

Dean stole and changed into dry clothes right in the middle of the aisle. He was in a hurry, and the store was empty. Societal approval was a luxury that Winchesters couldn't afford anyway.

He stole sweats in his size for Castiel, because Dean would ease the human transition in any way he could. It wasn't much in comparison to what Castiel had lost, but Dean knew that it would be appreciated once Castiel came back to himself a little. He even remembered the little stuff like boxers, undershirts, and socks—he forgot the shoes, but wouldn't realize it until much later.

Then Dean made a quick foray into the food department. He was never one to turn down free food, and Castiel ate so rarely that the human body must be ravenous. Then, ever mindful of the Winchester luck, he picked up aspirin, first aid supplies, blankets, and smashed the knife counter for the biggest one available. Dean raided broken cash registers for the funding to cover gas, rooms, and miscellaneous expenses all the way to South Dakota. Dean whistled on his way out the door, resolving to keep in mind the sheer usefulness of abandoned Wal*Marts.

The temporary good mood evaporates when he has to bang on the window twice to get a reaction from Castiel. The former-angel's hands fumbled with the locks, and as soon as the distinctive click sounded, Dean ripped open the passenger door.

He had to crouch hastily to brace the man before Castiel could fall to the pavement.

"Cmon, Cas," Dean slapped the former angel's face gently. "C'mon. Get this shit off." He ends up having to manhandle the angel out of coat and blazer. Dean didn't have the patience for buttons or knots. The tie was cut; the shirt ripped open, and then Dean stopped short.

"Cas?" he finally managed to choke out.

The angel's blue eyes focused blearily on Dean's face before following their gaze down to his bare chest. The burn stood out vividly against pale and otherwise-unmarked skin. The flat of a palm low over Castiel's sternum, fingertips brushing the collarbone. "Oh," Castiel manages succinctly.

"Yeah, 'oh,'" Dean growled. "Something you might have mentioned?"

Because Dean recognizes that mark, has one just like it on his shoulder from a different hand. It's the mark of unrestrained angel on a lowly human. It burns worse than can be put into mortal words. And there had been angels in that convent. An angel had died there. An angel had marked Castiel. Was it one and the same? Had Castiel interrupted a holy showdown and gotten caught in the crossfire?

Zachariah, Anna, Gabriel, Raphael, Michael, Lucifer . . . "Was it _him_?" Dean demanded. "Did that _bastard_ . . ." The name, Sam, came unbidden to his mind, but Dean squashed it down. ". . . _Lucifer_ hurt you?"

But the angelic mark aside, they were completely healed. Why would . . . ?

"No." Castiel covered the mark with his own hand. "Gabriel," Castiel almost choked on the name, and he looked away from Dean. "Gabriel did not let . . ." Castiel's chin jerked upright; Dean recognized wounded pride and fierce love briefly before the confusion of human failing returned. Castiel looked away again. "Gabriel took my place before Raphael and the Host. He did not _ask_."

Dean's mind boggled. "That selfish coward saved you?"

"After beating me bloody first," Castiel agreed. "He did not want me to fall, but it was my choice," Castiel's voice is iron, even as he shook from the cold.

Dean ripped open the packaging on the first blanket his fingers touch. Castiel leaned forward enough for Dean to wrap it around the other man. "Yeah, well . . . go Team Freewill," he muttered hollowly, and Castiel cut a sharp glance up at him—like Dean surpassed his expectations. They didn't say anything else while Dean cut through the wet knots of the laces. He left the battered dress shoes where they fell as Castiel continued.

"He allowed them to take my powers. That was my punishment for being stubborn, but when Raphael prepared to smite me, Gabriel pushed me aside."

Dean remembered pushes like that—brotherly, get-the-fuck-down-pushes, and brotherly, the-last-piece-of-pie-is-mine pushes, and brotherly, I'm-the-oldest-so-I'm-in-charge-pushes.

"He said . . ." and Castiel trailed off for a long moment. "He said I had paid enough. And then he was there, and I was across the room, and everything burned." Castiel hung his head. "The death of an archangel . . . the entire Host will retreat to heaven for mourning. Even Lucifer will be affected."

"And you?"

Castiel frowned, his head nodding tiredly against his will. "I . . . I am having trouble focusing my thoughts on the incident."

"That's called repression. It's a coping mechanism. Welcome to humanity."

"I do not wish to be human."

Dean closed his eyes, pained. "I know."

Dean pulls into the first motel on the first clean stretch of highway, and it's a good thing that it is dark out, because he has to carry Castiel to the room. And answering questions about half-naked semi-conscious former-angels was not high on his priority list. The man's lips are blue, and Dean heads straight for the bathroom. Dean kicks the lid shut on the toilet and sets Castiel there. Spinning, he starts hot water and turns back to the former-angel.

Castiel's not even trying anymore, so Dean manhandles him out of the last of his cold wet clothing and under the hot water, forcing Castiel's head under the shower's spray. The heat is starting to restore some of Castiel's senses, and once Dean's positive that the angel won't collapse, he retreats from the shower and makes a run back out to the car for the supplies he had picked up earlier.

It takes two trips, because he'd rather have everything on hand then need to make a second trip later. He returns to find Castiel sitting on the edge of the tub, wrapped in the blanket again and staring off into space. Dean grabs the abandoned towel and takes care of the wet hair dripping cold rivulets of water down Castiel's face.

He's relieved that the other man notices the ministrations, and heartened by Castiel trying to push him away, but Dean won't have any of it. His friend is still too pale and still shivering. He supervises Castiel getting dressed, and hustles him back out into the motel room and to the nearest bed.

The newly acquired shirt comes off again, and Dean inspects the mark. It could be so much worse than it is.

"Well, despite going ten rounds with a celestial bear, you look pretty good considering," Dean announces, not expecting a response. "Let's-"

"H'rts," Castiel slurred his first word since the heart-rending confession earlier.

Pain is an abstract concept to an angel, the vessel a barrier between the angel and the injury, divine healing grace undoing damage nearly instantly. Castiel is feeling pain, really and truly feeling pain for the first time, and the guy can't even muster up tears for what must hurt like a bitch because he's completely spent.

Dean can't fix this with ice. Not when Castiel's body temperature keeps flagging. He's even hesitant about giving the angel any kind of medication, because if Castiel goes to sleep, Dean has no assurance that the guy will wake up. Jimmy Novak's body has been through all sorts of trauma, and Castiel's sudden transformation has ripped away all of what held it together. Shock was nasty.

"I know, buddy," he decides slowly, "But it'll get better."

It has to.


End file.
